“Let’s discuss this situation like rational people,” she proposed coolly. “Perhaps you’re correct that you and I can reach an . . . arrangement beneficial to us both.” She walked over to the sideboard—holding up her hands, palms outward, when he reached for the pistol—and picked up the gin bottle. “May I pour for you, and join you in a glass? I find I’m ready for that drink now.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “By all means.”
She poured generously for him. Suppressing a grimace at the dirty sheen on the remaining glasses, she measured out a smaller portion for herself and sipped primly. Perhaps a little Dutch courage would not be amiss, given the situation. “Now please, Mr. Garforth, tell me about this debtors’ eviction and bawdy-house charge against me. And what do you mean by ‘nothing left to lose’? Are you no longer in the Duke of Bedford’s employ?”
He launched into a long rant against her and the duke, which she encouraged with tsks and a liberal hand with the gin. “You got me fired, you whore, you and that posh toff you work for!”
She refused to take offense at the insults of one as lowly as he but did frown when he got to this point. “You think Lord Rexton had something to do with your firing?”
“Bedford told me Rexton came to him with complaints, that I’d made threats against your precious sister!” he sneered. “Don’t pretend you don’t know about it, missy—it’s all your fault! The money you paid for the rent must have come from Rexton, that fool, so you’re clearly whoring for him. You ran to him, and then he got the ear of Bedford.”
She knew Garforth was only half right but didn’t bother to set him straight. Billy was the one she needed to talk to, if ever she got out of this mess. With the boy’s confession that he’d eavesdropped at the office door, it wasn’t hard to piece together that his next move had been to involve Dominick. Neither of them had foreseen how it would backfire, with Bedford firing Garforth and the land agent seeking such revenge.
She poured Garforth more gin, encouraging him to keep talking and hoping he’d simply pass out. He sat with the pistol on his lap and laid out the whole sorry story, including how he’d sworn out the complaint against her on trumped-up charges and false grounds, as he was no longer working for Bedford. The clerks, curse their officious little souls, did have her payment duly recorded and entered in the books of accounts. The charges wouldn’t stand up but were enough to launch his plot.
Eventually, he wound down and pushed unsteadily to his feet, waving the pistol at her. “So here’s what you’re goin’ t’do to fix things,” he slurred. “I’ll stay away from your sister—if you admit to the duke it was all a lie on your part to Rexton, that you were just tryin’ to get your rent reset accordin’ to the old lease agreement.” He staggered across the room to a desk. “Even got a confession here, all written up for you t’sign.”
“I’ll sign no such document,” she retorted stoutly. The lout was so pitiful that she edged toward the door, ready to chance a run for it.
But he seemed to anticipate her move and raised the gun, pointing it straight at her heart with a surprisingly steady hand. “Get over here,” he snarled. “First, you’ll sign. Then, you’ll take off your clothin’. I’ve a mind t’sample the viscount’s leavin’s.”
For a moment, she considered letting him shoot.
She was so tired of being pushed around by men and impossible circumstances. So very, very tired. It would be a relief to no longer worry and fight, to simply let it all be over.
But then her family would be alone.
She closed her eyes on a deep sigh.
And walked over to sign. She didn’t even read the pages, past caring whether her confession of fraud condemned her to a lifetime in prison.
But she did slip her page cutter out of its leather case in her reticule as she bent over the table.
“Good girl.” He waved the pistol down her form, lurching as he did so. “Now take off that gown. I’ll have you for my troubles, or I’ll go back for your sister. Which do you want it to be?”
His threat to her sister pushed her too far. She lifted her arm, brandishing the page cutter. “If you try to touch my sister again, I swear to God you’ll die for it.”
His face flushed with a red glower of rage and he aimed the gun at her chest. “You’re in no position to threaten me! You’ve ruined my life! You’re the one who should die! Now get over here or I’ll shoot you down like the useless bitch you are!”
She was not giving in to this despicable excuse for a man without a fight. She feinted to the side and lunged at him with her makeshift stiletto.
He tracked her with the pistol and pulled the trigger.
As if in slow motion, she saw the flintlock release and strike its spark. She dove to the ground and heard the click as the flint hit the flash pan lid.
But nothing happened: no ignition of gunpowder, no ball shooting out. The look of consternation on Garforth’s face was almost comical. “I primed the damn thing myself!” He held up the pistol. “What, how—the powder’s gone from the pan! That blasted footboy of yours must have shook it out and closed back up the frizzen!”
She’d apologize to Billy later. Right now, she had to get out of here.
She pushed to her feet from the floor and made a dash for it. She was vaguely aware of pounding from afar and wondered if it was her own hammering heart.
But Garforth reversed his grip on the gun and blocked the door with the stock lifted as a cudgel. “I’m not done with you yet!” he roared.
She lunged, knife at the ready, as he reached for her.
She twisted sideways, but not before she felt the gun stock smash down on her left shoulder. With the cutter in her right hand, she slashed wildly at him and made some sort of contact. At the sickening glide of blade into soft flesh, she jerked away. She raced down the hall, hugging her numbed arm to her side.
And ran straight into the solid bulk of Dominick. He burst through the front door, followed by Billy and two stalwart English bobbies.
She choked on a sob and buried her face in Dominick’s shirtfront, just as his arms came up to wrap hard around her.
Dom led Callista into the small parlor off the foyer as soon as they arrived back at Rexton House.
Christ, he didn’t ever want to live through an experience like that again.
When Billy had arrived on his doorstep with an unconscious Daphne and a story to turn Dom gray, he’d grabbed his pistols. With orders to Graves to send constables on his heels, he’d raced back in the hansom. Luckily, his mother had just returned from France and had been paying a call at Rexton House with his uncle. Lady Rexton happily took charge of Daphne, and Sir George, looking fit to kill, barreled off to Caldwell’s sponge house to see to Lady Mildred.
“Graves,” Dom called over his shoulder to the normally unflappable butler, who was wringing his hands, “get word to Sir George and inform my mother that Miss Higginbotham is safe with me. I’ve sent a constable over to Caldwell’s with Billy to withdraw the false accusations against the Higginbotham family.”
“Right away, my lord,” the butler replied, bowing. “The physician has been by to examine Miss Daphne and left his assurances she’ll be fine by morning, except perhaps for suffering a headache. He expects she’ll recall very little of the events. Lady Rexton is sitting with her now.”
“Excellent. We’ll be up shortly.”
With another bow, Graves withdrew, shutting the doors gently. At the sight of Callista pacing the room, arms wrapped tight around her middle, Dom went to the sideboard and poured her a brandy.
“Here, drink this. It’ll help steady your nerves.”
She took it from him with ice-cold hands, and he swore at the wild, unfocused look in her eyes.
He held the glass to her mouth to help her take a sip and then set it down to rub his hands carefully along her arms. “Does it hurt where he clubbed you? We should get the physician back to take a look.”
She just shook her head.
He’d exami
ned her arm carefully in the cab on the way home and determined nothing was broken. Save for a bruise on the morrow, she too should be fine. On the outside. He wrapped her close. “It’s over, Callista. He can’t hurt you again.”
“It’s Daphne he could have hurt! Oh, God, Dominick”—she sank against him—“he was going to hurt her . . . How could she have gone on?”
“But he didn’t and he won’t—you stopped him. You were an idiot to try to do it by yourself. I should wring your neck for risking it. But you succeeded.” He held her at arm’s length, still terrified for her. He was angry and hurt she hadn’t trusted him for aid. For her sake, he tried to push all that aside. He bent his head to force her to meet his gaze. “You saved Daphne.”
“Yes”—she held his look—“I did, didn’t I?”
“Why didn’t you come to me for help?” The question escaped despite himself.
“I had no right to do so, and there didn’t seem to be time.” But then her voice softened. “But I’m very grateful you came, Dominick. You saved me.” She laid a soft hand against his chest and smiled tremulously up at him. “When you came through that door, I’d never been so glad to see someone in my life. You were wonderful. I’m not sure what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived.”
Dom knew all too well what could have happened, and it twisted a sick knot of fury in his guts. Garforth’s wound had been slight—a shallow cut across his side—and he’d been roaring with wrath. Callista would’ve had to mortally stab him to escape his clutches, or he’d have raped and murdered her in the hall. Dom cursed under his breath as he fought to banish the image.
“Billy came to fetch me right away,” he said, seeking distraction. “That’s why I was able to get to you quickly.”
“I told him to take Daphne to Lady Beatrice, to make sure she was safe.”
“He knew she’d be safe here. And he knew you needed help. He wasn’t going to abandon you to that bastard. That’s a quote, in fact, if you’ll forgive the language.” Dom smiled at the memory of Billy’s wild ferocity. The lad would have stayed at Garforth’s to rip the bloody rotter apart with his bare hands, if not for “Miss H.” ordering him to get Daphne out. It had put him in a desperate quandary, and Dom didn’t doubt he’d have suffered Billy’s wrath if he hadn’t brought Callista home to safety.
“Billy said that?” She gave a small smile and didn’t look quite so lost. “It’s one of his new personal rules, never to swear in front of a lady. But it sounds just the sort of thing he’d say to you. You should have heard his tongue when he first came to live with us.”
“He’d give his life to see you not hurt.” Dom barked out a laugh and raked a hand through his hair. Billy had said more, as well. That he refused to let her sacrifice herself for the family any longer. That she hadn’t accepted it yet, but “yer lordship” was her man and it was Rexton’s job to save her now. Dom had agreed with the last bit—the rest he’d sort through later. “I think I’m jealous of a fourteen-year-old houseboy.”
“He’s a good lad. I couldn’t have got Daphne out without him.” Her lip began to tremble again.
He swore softly and wrapped her in his arms once more. “And you’re a good woman, Callista. A brave and loving woman who protects her own. And a fierce fighter.” He chucked her under the chin. “Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you and your page cutter.”
She looked up at him, and he smiled as he saw the shadows retreat from her eyes. That he could do such for her—keep the wolves at bay, tease her back to good humor, protect her, and make her happy—suddenly seemed a marvelous thing. He mattered to someone, someone important to him.
And then those eyes of hers—those gorgeous silver-gray eyes with her dark winged brows—went soft and smoky as a new need spread into them.
“Dominick,” she whispered. “I don’t want the memory of a man touching me to be him.”
His breath stopped.
To take advantage of her at this moment would be despicable, but to put her aside was impossible. He needed to soothe her as much as she needed him. He needed to know she was unharmed; he needed to make it better for her. She was right; men could be awful brutes.
He enfolded her in his arms and bent his head to her temple, inhaling deeply. God, she smells so good. Some indescribable essence of Callista, warm and feminine and delicate, but so strong under it all. He feathered light kisses across her brow, over to the pink shell of her ear and down her neck. He felt a shudder of response rack her as she grasped his arms more tightly. Then he captured her mouth and drank from her like a man parched in the desert.
When she opened to him and gave herself over to his kiss, desire slammed into him like a freight train. “Callista,” he murmured, nibbling at her mouth. She was so responsive and unguarded in her reaction to his lovemaking. Her utter honesty was one of the things he most admired about her.
Because it’s so damned lacking in you, mocked his demons.
He could tell she wanted to be lost in it, to not have to think or feel, and because kissing happened to be one of his special skills in life, he fulfilled her wish. It wasn’t quite what he wanted—her, focused on him, desiring him—but it was enough for now.
She allowed him a full minute of torturous paradise as he kissed and licked and explored her soft mouth, before she pulled away. “Dominick,” she whispered again breathlessly, clutching at his lapels. Her eyes shone, huge and luminous. “I want to ask you something; I want to ask you for something.”
“Anything, beauty.” He nibbled toward her ear.
A small smile plumped her cheek. “A dangerous promise, Dominick. It’s this: because of you, I want things now I didn’t think about before. I know I’ll never marry; as you’ve pointed out, that ship has sailed. But I want to know, to feel, what this thing is”—her voice wavered and she tucked her head shyly into his neck—“this thing that burns between us. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone, wondering and regretting, with nothing but memories of Garforth.”
She took one faltering step back. Hands fisted at her sides, she held his gaze. “Dominick, I want you to show me.” She swallowed hard. “But if you want me, you have to offer all of you. The real you.”
He thought of a pagan goddess, of the nymph of Artemis for whom she was named, bravely offering herself to some half-known beast.
Him. She wanted him. Dominick. Not his mask.
Her honesty awed, humbled him. Her courage allowed him to speak. “Callista, I don’t know if I can give what you want. But if you let me, I can show you who we can be together. I can offer us.”
It was strange phrasing. He wasn’t sure what he meant by it, but it had the appeal of shutting up his damn inner voice.
As her gaze fell, he knew it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. When she raised her head, shadows were back in her beautiful fey eyes. Staring down into their silver depths, he knew were he a better man he’d feel guilt for the conflict he’d stirred there. But guilt be damned. The heated flush of desire rising from her body burned him like a brand. Nothing mattered more than bringing them together. An affair with Callista was all wrong, and he had no idea how to make it work without hurting them both, especially her, with her reputation dangling by a thread. But he had to have her—hell, body and soul, he needed her.
He held out his hand to her, palm up.
Her chin firmed. “All right. Yes.”
He almost stumbled at the punch of lust that surged in his gut.
He wasn’t worthy of her. She deserved far more. He’d end up disappointing and hurting her and feeling even more like a wastrel bastard. But she’d said yes, and not for his soul would he turn her down now.
Soon, very soon, he’d make her his. “Come, I’ll take you up to Daphne,” he said. “Uncle George should have Lady Mildred and Mademoiselle Beauvallon out of the sponge house soon.”
Her eyes, so uncertain yet so open, searched his. He felt a rip of shame over the ridiculous public face he still put on at the balls h
e attended and that equally ridiculous name under which he wrote.
But she placed her hand in his.
They said nothing more as they walked upstairs. He felt absurdly grateful she let him hold her hand all the way up.
Chapter 12
Dom wasted no time laying his plan to claim Callista.
First, he insisted she take the rest of the week off work, to put her household back together and spend time with her family. Lady Beatrice came over twice, and Callista paid a morning call on her friend at DeBray Hall, where they worked on plans for the Society of Love Ball. Callista also called on Lady Yarborough in Belgravia. Both ladies were doing all they could to keep quiet this latest scandal and rehabilitate Callista’s badly tarnished reputation.
Two burly footmen, a new housemaid, and some painters came in temporarily to replace the furniture carted back by the bailiffs and give the house a thorough polish. Marie’s dress shop materials were returned and cleaned. For those fabrics and items damaged in the eviction and for the harassment of the false accusation, Dom convinced the Duke of Bedford to make a generous restitution. As for the duke’s former business agent, Garforth was in jail, awaiting conviction on charges carefully laid to avoid all mention of Daphne and any need for Callista to testify.
Lady Rexton, who loved drama and excitement in all forms, had been more than delighted to be of service in caring for “dear Daphne” after her rescue and incensed on Callista’s behalf upon learning the whole story. Her ladyship now stopped at Bloomsbury Square most afternoons to inquire after the two sisters and engage in strategy sessions with her newest dressmaker. Marie was thrilled yet nervous at this breakthrough opportunity to launch her trade. She and Lady Rexton were plotting an audacious new wardrobe featuring the latest trends in French fashion, including daringly low, off-the-shoulder necklines for the evening gowns.
All these happenings Dom learned of from Danvers, who seemed to find endless reasons to escort Dom’s mother to Bloomsbury and linger in the sitting area of Marie’s shop. Luckily, the secretary needed only the slightest of prodding—a casual query: “So, how were the ladies today?”—to prattle on with a nicely detailed account of life in Callista’s household.
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